


The Noble and Most Ancient Kettle of Black

by MaesterChill, timothysboxers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bickering, Claustrophobia, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Moving In Together, Not all of it good, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Sentient Objects, Tea, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, more bickering, more tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26526340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/pseuds/MaesterChill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timothysboxers/pseuds/timothysboxers
Summary: Things get steamy in the newly formed Potter-Malfoy household. Unfortunately it's not in the sexy way you might expect...When a copper kettle and a porcelain teapot stir up tensions to boiling point, who will be the unlikely saviour to calm the troubled waters with a perfect cup of tea?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 73
Collections: Squee Squad Birthday Gifts





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassy_cissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_cissa/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Betsy! 
> 
> We hope you're enjoying a lovely day today and that this wee streak of nonsense brings you a smile. Or a cup of tea and a biscuit, your choice!
> 
> Thanks to [Tami | LLAP115](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLAP115/) for brilliant beta assistance and for cheering us on.

If Harry was honest, he'd been a little nervous about moving in with Draco. They'd only been dating for two and a half months. It seemed so quick, but at the same time... not. Because really, he'd known Draco half his life. Sure, they'd fought and argued through seven years of school, but Harry _knew_ Draco. They knew each other. And while they still squabbled on a daily basis, there was no malice in it.

Truthfully, they saw eye-to-eye on most things. Which surprised everyone, not least Harry and Draco themselves. It was crazy, but they fit together well.

Funnily enough, it was one of their snarky little rows that precipitated them moving in together. Draco had tripped on _another_ pair of Harry's shoes in the hall, and from sheer frustration had shouted 'By Merlin's beard, Potter, you might as well live here for the sheer volume of junk you manage to leave lying about this place!' In a rare moment of clarity—or temporary insanity—Harry had simply agreed and Draco's stunned silence had been worth all the galleons in Gringotts.

So actually, Harry'd thought as he levitated his trunk over the threshold of Draco's terraced cottage, there was nothing to be nervous about. Nothing could possibly come between them that they couldn't laugh off, or settle decisively with a tumble in Draco's— _their_ —king-size bed or a cuddle on his—no, _their_ —black suede Chesterfield sofa.

So, given this, it was most perplexing that they had now, by Harry's count, gone a whole four hours without speaking one civil word to one another, and he was finding himself secretly plotting ways to dispose of one of Draco's most beloved possessions. And all only two days after he'd moved in.

Harry chanced a look at Draco, who scowled back at him and sipped his tea aggressively.

It was all that sodding snooty kettle's fault.

—

It was all the bloody teapot's fault, that was the thing, Draco thought as he drank his tea. He really didn't want to cast aspersions against a gift from Molly Weasley, who Harry called 'mum' and who treated Draco to suffocating hugs and roast dinners every other Sunday when they visited. He really hadn't wanted to call it an ugly patterned monstrosity with an attitude problem, because he knew Harry loved the damn thing, but, well... if the chipped lid fit...

And besides, Harry had been so rude about Hestia. What was a little scald mark or two to a man who'd saved the entire wizarding world from an evil madman? He'd had part of the Dark Lord's soul _inside_ him for Merlin's sake! It was a total overreaction.

Draco supposed it had all started that first afternoon when Harry moved in. He'd been looking forward to it for days, ever since Harry agreed to his barmy suggestion, and had spent hours tidying up, cleaning and polishing, fluffing cushions, and making up the bed with the good linen. His house-keeping charms had never seen such a rigorous workout. Harry had only been over a handful of times, and he'd not done much looking around the place, in fact Draco's wasn't even sure they'd switched the lights on (Harry's Lumos was a powerful thing).

Draco remembered Harry's face as he entered the hallway with his trunk. He'd never seen his boyfriend looking shy or nervous before and wanted to kiss away that little crinkle on his brow. But not two minutes later he was his usual cheery self, and so the only proper thing to do was to put on the kettle for some tea. Which Draco promptly did.

—

According to Harry, the kettle had taken a dislike to him from the outset. And he'd been nothing but nice to it!

"Ooh, that's a cool kettle," Harry said. "How do you keep the copper so—"

"Cool? COOL?!" a high-pitched voice said. "I'll have you know I'm quite the opposite, young man. I have never delivered anything short of piping hot water to my masters and mistresses in 75 years." A sharp blast of steam emitted from the spout of the kettle to punctuate the statement.

"A sentient kettle!" Harry exclaimed. "That _is_ cool... I mean, not cool, sorry. Er, it's _pleasing_?"

Draco nodded. "Yes, Harry, this is Hestia. She's been in my mother's family for many years and is very dear to me." He gently stroked the handle of the appliance. "Hestia, this is Harry Potter and he's come to live with us."

The kettle's lid rattled abruptly, then stilled. Harry and Draco stared at her for a moment.

Harry cleared his throat. "Well, it's lovely to meet you! It's actually sort of a coincidence, because..."

And that's when Harry went and made things worse, Draco informed him later.

Harry disappeared momentarily, and returned with a large white and gold porcelain teapot, with a pattern of twisting flowers and leaves around the body. "Hestia, meet Mrs Potts! My faithful teapot, and a gift from Molly and Arthur. She's sentient too and makes the most wonderful tea!" Harry placed Mrs Potts on the counter and pushed her gently forward. "Say 'hello', don't be shy now."

To say the situation rose to a rapid boil would be an understatement.

" _She_ makes the tea wonderful?" Hestia said, lurching forward on the hob. " _Hardly_. She is merely a vessel to hold the tea ingredients while they steep."

"A vessel? A _vessel_? Why, I— Of all the—" Mrs Potts pointed her spout at Hestia. "The brewing stage is paramount, and the way it's done has a key bearing on the flavour profile—"

"Absolute piffle!" Hestia puffed. "The temperature of the water is the most crucial part. I'll have you know..."

And that's when Harry and Draco retreated to the living room and let their prized sentient objects cool down, the idea of a cup of tea all but forgotten.

The problem was, it didn't simmer down.

—

The next morning Harry crept downstairs to make breakfast in bed for Draco. Before long, he had poached eggs on the boil, sourdough bread in the toaster, a bowl of mashed avocado on the counter, and thick rashers of bacon and juicy vine tomatoes finishing under the grill.

Mrs Potts sat quietly on the counter-top nearby, tea leaves in place and lid sitting by her side. Harry lifted the kettle to fill it with water only to be shrieked at.

"Unhand me at once! What in the name of old Perseus Black do you think you're doing?"

"Shush, shush, shush!" Harry hissed. "Trying to make a pot of tea for Draco, _your master_. And you'll bloody wake him up if you keep shouting."

"I shall only heat water for descendants of the Black family, their spouses or house-elves, and you are none of those things." Hestia rattled her lid distastefully.

Harry spluttered. "That's daft. You're a kettle, and anyway, I'm the godson of Sirius Black."

"Doesn't count," she replied imperiously. "You're not a blood relative. Blood is thicker than water." And then, to a tune Harry vaguely recognised, she smugly sang, " _No blood connection, no water convection. Not a wife, husband or elf? Fill a pan and boil it yourself_."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Harry spat. He wrenched the lid off the kettle and began filling it wandlessly with an Aguamenti.

Hestia jolted violently in his grip. Cold water splashed across the counter, showering Mrs Potts. She yelped, jumping backward reflexively and sending her own lid skidding across the countertop into the base of a plant.

"Stop that!" he said, slamming the kettle down on the stove.

"Assault!" Hestia shrieked again. "Assault and battery!"

"Give over, would you?" Harry snapped. "I just want to make Draco a nice fucking cup—."

Mrs Potts let out mournful wail. "My beautiful lid is chipped!"

"Harry!" He spun around to see a rumpled Draco standing in the doorframe. "Why are you swearing at poor Hestia? And making _such_ a racket?"

"I'm not making the racket! It's her! Your snooty pureblood kettle!" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Worse than Walburga's portrait, that one."

"Harry!" Draco repeated, looking shocked. "What's got into you?"

"I'm sorry. Shit. I don't know. I..." Now Harry felt awful. "I wanted to make you breakfast in bed. And now I've ruined it."

Draco held his gaze for a moment, until the sound of the toaster broke the silence. "It's a lovely thought, Harry, and I'm up now anyway. We can eat in the garden, it's a beautiful morning." He made his way out to the garden.

Mrs Potts sulked behind the plant, nursing her lid despite Harry's assurances that the chip was barely noticeable, but she wouldn't be convinced. Harry grumbled to himself as he plated their breakfast, and Hestia rattled smugly on the hob, her spout held high and copper gleaming.

If Harry was honest, It wasn't his finest breakfast. The eggs were cooked more firm, and the bacon and tomatoes a little more crispy than he'd intended; and most disappointingly, it was without a pot of tea.

—

The following morning was no better.

Draco awoke to the sound of rattling and hissing.

When he and Harry arrived in the kitchen, it was to find Hestia and Mrs Potts at opposite ends of the worktop, handles facing each other, spouts raised haughtily, engaged in what could only be described as _bickering_. The kitchen was slowly filling up with steam as they exchanged terse epithets.

"...and I maintain: tea brewed from your water would taste like something wrung out of a mop," said Mrs Potts shrilly.

"That says more about your capability at brewing than the quality of my water," Hestia bit back.

"If the quality of your water is anything like your temperament, I think you'll find—"

"Look at my kitchen!" Draco wailed, "And my hair; it's starting to curl in all this steam! I've had quite enough of both of you. This is ridiculous and childish behaviour! I'm making tea now and you both better behave."

Both appliances whistled meekly.

Draco popped two teabags into two cups, snatched Hestia by the handle and poured boiling water on them.

"Aren't you going to make a pot?" Harry asked.

"I'd rather not, to be honest. Mrs Potts informed me yesterday afternoon that 'tea-bags are pedestrian', and flatly refused to accept them stating she was ' _strictly_ loose-leaf'."

"Oh, did she just?" Harry looked toward Mrs Potts, who had scooted behind the fruit bowl. "Now who's being childish?" After a beat, Harry snickered, childishly. "But, in fairness, leaves _are_ better."

Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry. "And you call my kettle snooty? These teabags are imported from the mountain regions of Tanzania and cost two Galleons a box!"

Harry whistled in mock adulation, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. "Ooh, _two_ Galleons a box, and they come from _that_ far away? I bet you can really taste the mountain air."

"Give over you prat," Draco chided, levitating the teabags into the bin, "and don't mock it before you've tried it."

—

After breakfast, Harry popped upstairs for a quick shower, and when he returned to the kitchen he found Draco cooing over his kettle, buffing her with a soft cloth, Hestia puffing steam gently out of her spout appreciatively, her copper gleaming. As he came closer, he realised Draco was whispering soothing words to the stuck-up kettle.

Draco looked up sheepishly and said "I've just made us tea," and pointed at the cups he'd clearly just poured.

A short burst of steam issued from Mrs Potts' spout. "Sorry; _Mrs Potts_ and I have made some tea," Draco corrected himself.

Harry picked up his tea and took a sip. "So, if you and Mrs Potts have made nice, does that mean this one decided to let _me_ boil water, or is it still being bigoted?" Harry asked with thinly masked irritation.

"Harry, she's a 'she' not an 'it', and there's no need—" Draco was cut short when Harry yelped. Hestia had surreptitiously squirted a jet of water at him. Draco stifled a laugh.

"That thing's a safety incident waiting to happen, Draco! It... _she's_ just scalded me!"

"Pish posh, Harry," Draco dismissed, waving his wand and casually healing Harry's burnt arm. "You just need to treat her with the devotion and respect that a Black heirloom deserves."

"I think you'll find I'm giving her the exact amount of respect she deserves," Harry grumbled, "which is none. I'm half inclined to turn her over to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. She's clearly cursed."

"Muggle artefact!" Draco screeched. "Hestia is a highly _magical_ object with documented provenance and steeped in Black family legacy, and... and at least she's not an ugly monstrosity named after a tacky Disney character—"

"An ug—ugly mon— _monstrosity!_ " Mrs Potts wailed, choking back a sob before disappearing, leaving a few wisps of steam in her wake.

Harry stared at the now empty counter. "Where's she gone?" he snapped. "Oh bloody hell Malfoy! That was mean, even for you!"

"Oh, 'bloody hell' yourself, Potter," Draco retorted. "And how should I know where she's gone? She's your teapot!"

And that was all it took for Harry to decide he'd had enough and storm out, tea undrunk, like the brute he was.

If he was honest, moments after the fact, Draco _did_ feel a little ashamed at his outburst, but really, did Harry need to be so rude? And well, hadn't he and Hestia had become accustomed to doing things a certain way, and if Harry wanted to go and fly his broom for the next three hours, who was Draco to stop him? To be honest, stewing for a bit might be just what he needed.

—

After a long session of swooping and diving around the fields near Draco's house, with the wind in his hair and a light mist cooling his skin, Harry felt the fog lift from his head a bit and came to the decision that _maybe_ it would just be easier to let Draco make the tea in future. What he had with Draco was new and fragile, and he didn't want to risk it shattering over a ceramic teapot and a copper kettle.

When he returned Mrs Potts was still missing, and on top of that, Draco was nowhere to be found. After roaming the house to no avail, it wasn't long before he felt the same old resentment brewing. Why should he put up with this bigoted nonsense? He and Mrs Potts had been nothing but polite and lovely since arriving; brief incidences of swearing and pointed grumbling notwithstanding.

Harry glanced around the kitchen furtively—no kettle in sight. While this was a relief in itself, it posed its own problem: finding something else to boil water in for a cup of tea. Bitterly recalling the kettle's taunting song, he set a saucepan on the stove to _boil it himself_.

As Harry waited for said pan to come to said boil, Draco emerged from the garden where he'd been purportedly attending to a few tasks— _hiding out and avoiding him_ , more likely.

Despite Harry's best intentions to apologise and smooth the waters, Draco's lack of concern for Mrs Potts sent the whole thing bubbling over again; both of them spitting insults at each other and their treasured tea-making equipment.

"Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black," Draco retorted hotly after Harry had just branded him 'unreasonable'. In any other situation he'd have laughed at the idiom, particularly considering the kettle was a Black family heirloom, and so he technically _could_ call it 'Black'.

However, loud hissing from the stove redirected his attention. Harry removed the saucepan from the heat and proceeded to throw some tea leaves into it.

Draco stared at him a moment. "Harry, of all the strange— _Why_ are you making tea in a saucepan?"

"I don't have a tea pot, and I'm not _allowed_ to use the kettle," Harry replied flatly, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

Draco looked away, clearing his throat. "Speaking of kettles, where is Hestia?"

Harry turned to face Draco and huffed, "How should I know where she is? She's _your_ kettle."

And _that_ is how they ended up sitting at opposite ends of the dining room in stony silence, stewing in their own resentment-filled juices, drinking sub-par tea made in a saucepan, and neither able to fathom where their beloved belongings had disappeared to, nor bring themselves to ask the other for help.

—


	2. Chapter 2

Draco hated to admit it, but he was growing rather anxious about Hestia's disappearance. It just wasn't _like_ her. She'd always been steadfastly _there_ for him, for as long as he could remember. Even as a boy, she'd patiently guided him through the process of making tea for his mother, being ever so careful not to let him burn himself.

After thirty minutes of fruitless, but _necessary_ , sulking over his lacklustre cuppa, Draco decided that something had to be done (and it was patently clear that Harry wasn't planning to be the bigger person), so as he vanished the tea leaves from the pan and cups—Merlin, they got everywhere; teabags were so much more sensible—he broke their impasse by suggesting they search the cottage for their missing possessions.

"We've already searched the kitchen from top to bottom and used Summoning charms to try to find them," Harry said, exasperated. "What real good will looking around the rest of the house do?"

"Well, we can't do _nothing!_ And actually, now that I think of it, the cellar is very heavily warded, so I'm thinking a Summoning charm isn't likely to work if that's where they are. Security measure, you see. There are rather a lot of rare and highly valuable items down there."

"Alright," Harry said, "though I can't understand how Mrs Potts would end up there. Or why. Can teapots even Apparate?" He cast a drying spell on the cups and levitated them to the cupboard—all wandlessly of course, the show-off. "But yeah, I suppose we should explore all possibilities."

"I don't know for certain, but I do know sentient household objects are capable of much more than we realise...” Draco paused, and then conceded, “especially in times of great need."

“Or times of great distress at having been cruelly insulted,” Harry chided.

“Quite.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “As with kettles who have been sworn at and manhandled.”

"Quite," Harry agreed, sullenly.

—

Harry chuckled to himself as Draco attempted to dismantle the final enchantment at the doorway to the cellar. He seemed uncharacteristically flustered for someone who ordinarily had very few issues with spellwork. Perhaps it was the stinging zap that the lock gave him when he inserted the wrong key; or the outlandish belch of foul smoke that clouded them briefly as they walked down the stairwell; or perhaps it was Harry's own presence that was unnerving him so. In any case, Harry supposed it _was_ a little bit petty to derive amusement at Draco's expense. Not that the distraction wasn't welcome, considering he was most decidedly _not_ looking forward to wandering around a dank and musty cellar, searching for a cranky kettle among whatever constituted _rare and valuable items_ in a Malfoy collection.

"Potter," Draco said warningly, "if you're going to stand there snickering at least have the decency to shove your head into a _Silencio_ before I do it for you."

Harry felt the frustration in Draco's voice as well as a sharp pang of guilt. "Sorry," he mumbled in reply.

After a moment of silence, Draco raised his wand and tapped the door several times, muttering as he did so. A series of knocking sounds came from within the cellar, and the door creaked open at last.

Harry exhaled heavily. "Are we in yet, or are there more barriers?" he asked.

Draco turned to face him. "That should be it." He paused briefly. "I think."

"Merlin, how that _fills_ me with confidence."

A smirk crossed Draco's face. "In that case, _after you,_ " he said, as he ushered Harry through the doorway with an outstretched hand.

Not to be shown up, Harry stepped into the cellar, lighting his wand. "Prat," he grumbled as he passed.

"What was that, Potter?" Draco questioned him.

Harry cleared his throat. "I said: 'Thanks for that'," and a slight grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The cellar space was everything that Harry had expected it to be: cold, musty and badly lit, filled with all manner of furniture and boxes and various items covered with cloth. He decided within minutes that it must have been expanded with Wizard Space because he lost sight of Draco completely, only occasionally hearing a faraway call out for Hestia. He supposed he too should have been shouting for Mrs Potts.

He pushed past yet another crate draped in a white sheet, wondering when it had gotten so bloody cramped in this cellar, and really, why in Merlin's name Draco needed all this junk. He forged on ahead, shimmying past an old oak armoire. Something on the floor unsettled his footing, and he fell heavily against the wood, attempting to steady himself by grabbing the armoire's handles.

Harry looked back toward the entrance to the cellar and blinked. The room was now so dark he was scarcely able to see a thing anymore. He held his wand up high, and tried shoving a bit more magic through the Lumos, but he couldn't see any further. Lifting his glasses up, he rubbed his eyes to try to clear what he suspected was dust from them. His breathing quickened when he realised it had made no difference. _'Stay calm,'_ he told himself, pushing off the armoire and attempting to navigate toward the door. _'You can get out of here; you just need to retrace your steps'_.

Feeling his way back, Harry opened his mouth to call out, only to find he couldn't make a sound. An unsettling feeling roiled within his belly. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears. He quickened his pace, shoving past bulky glass cabinets filled with magical paraphernalia. The floor was littered with detritus, and he very quickly realised he was utterly lost among Draco's junk collection. Nothing was recognisable. Tears stung his eyes. The air had become oppressive and suffocating. He became aware of the loud, laboured gasps of his own breathing.

Harry felt a strong grip on his shoulder and spun around violently to shake it off. Vertigo overtook him momentarily as he fired off a defensive spell and staggered sideways, falling against an ancient bookcase, which began wobbling precariously.

"Potter! _Potter!_ "

Harry could faintly make out Draco's voice shouting at him as he slid to the floor dragging several heavy tomes down with him. And, he thought dimly, if Draco had reverted to calling him 'Potter', he must be feeling scared too. _'Malfoy!'_ he tried to cry, in reflexive response, but all he could manage was a rough rasping noise.

"Breathe, Potter, _breathe_." Two hands grasped his upper arms.

Harry's breathing gradually evened out under Draco's firm instruction and even firmer hand. As his eyes slowly cleared, the room began to brighten. The cellar suddenly seemed a lot less cramped, the dark shadows having been shooed away, and the piles of furniture and boxes were now sitting innocuously and were no longer the forbidding and confusing labyrinth they had seemed moments ago.

"Malfoy?" he croaked out, staring up from the floor. His head was pounding and his eyes stung from tears and the abrupt influx of light. Harry cleared his throat. "What _was_ that?" he asked, wiping his eyes. "It felt like everything was closing in on me. Like I couldn't breathe. Or see..."

Draco wrung his hands. "So... it would seem I _did_ forget something." He spoke with a quiet voice. "That was a _Claustrum Sensorius_. A sort of 'claustrophobic sensory overload' curse if you will. It's harmless really, designed to immobilise intruders in their own mind..." He trailed off when he saw Harry's expression.

Harry shuddered as a chill ran through his whole body. _Harmless_ wasn't the word he would have used. _Traumatic_ would have been a better place to start.

Draco offered a hand to Harry and pulled him up into a shaky embrace. "I'm really sorry, Harry," he began. "Come on, let's go back upstairs. It's safe to say neither Mrs Potts nor Hestia are down here."

—

_**Earlier the same day...** _

Cheated. Betrayed. Deceived. _Insulted._ Mrs Potts sobbed into one of Molly's knitted tea cosies on the dining table at 12 Grimmauld Place. It wasn't meant to turn out like this.

The way that Harry had spoken about this _relocation_ of sorts into the house of that Malfoy lad, he had made it sound so wonderful. A delightful terrace cottage in a magic-friendly village, with a lovely private garden overlooked from the kitchen windows. It sounded a lot like the Burrow, and they had both been sure it would make a vast improvement on the dank and cramped chambers of Grimmauld Place.

Merlin bless him, Harry had been so awfully smitten with this Malfoy lad. How anxious he'd been telling his friends about his secret infatuation, long before he'd ever plucked up the courage to ask Malfoy out. She remembered the way he would pace in front of the large stone kitchen hearth for a good twenty minutes before many of their dates, fussing with his hair and fretting over his robes, and all but willing the Floo to roar into life. And the way he tumbled back through the same hearth some hours later with Malfoy in tow, both smelling of firewhiskey and frivolity, giggling and grunting as they discarded clothes and shoes on their way upstairs.

The merging of households was supposed to be a beautiful thing, so how had it gone so wrong? If Molly Weasley had taught her anything it was that kind words, baked treats and a good cup of tea were three of the most important components of a harmonious home. Hadn't she tried to make it work? To come to an understanding with Hestia and Draco—only to see Harry scalded and herself mercilessly insulted?

Harry had been good to her, and even though she agreed to serve in his household, she missed the warmth and familial air of the Burrow now more than ever.

"Why is Mrs Potts crying on the dining table?" a curious voice asked.

Mrs Potts startled, an alarmed puff of steam emitting from the airhole in her lid, but sagged again when she saw who it was. "Oh, Kreacher," she mumbled into the cosy, "do _you_ think that I'm bad at brewing tea, and that I'm an uh— an ugly monstrosity?"

His eyes widened as she sobbed. "Who is saying such things to Mrs Potts?"

"Draco Malfoy," she cried, "and Hestia the kettle."

"Hestie the Kettle?" Kreacher exclaimed. "Is Mrs Potts meaning Hestie Black, the Noble and Most Ancient Kettle of Black?”

Mrs Potts' sobs abated with a sniffle, and she stared at Kreacher, “Why... yes. Hesti- _ah_ ,” she corrected. “Though a lot more ancient than she is noble, that menacing harpie. It was hardly _noble_ the way she spoke to—”

“And Draco Malfoy," Kreacher interrupted, "is that Mistress 'Cissa's boy?"

“I—I'm not sure, but he is definitely of Black heritage. Hestia took great pains to make _that_ clear. And they both got Master Harry so upset, Merlin curse them. Why I—”

"Master Harry, too?" Kreacher's eyes widened further, and then he snapped his fingers. “Begging Mrs Potts' pardon," he cried, jumping onto a chair and lifting her carefully into his arms, "Kreacher is knowing what to do!"

And before she could say 'Earl Grey', they vanished with a soft pop.

—


	3. Chapter 3

Never in all her years did Hestia Seraphina Black think she'd have to stoop to making nice with a common teapot. One with no heritage whatsoever and looking like she had come straight from a jumble sale.

However she and the pot had one thing in common: they absolutely adored their owners. And Hestia could see that the Potter fellow's unhappiness was causing Mrs Potts as much distress as she was feeling about her own master's displeasure.

When you boiled it all down, they both lived to serve their household, and if the master of the house was unhappy, it had a ripple effect on the house itself and all sentient objects within it. Little things at first: biscuits and cakes would go stale or dry, even under a stasis charm; the milk would sour, even when preserved correctly. Little things led into bigger things: Lamps would flicker constantly or the fire wouldn't stay properly lit. The oven and stove would run cold or burn things inexplicably. And if the discontent was allowed to continue for long enough, well, the house itself might just... _No_ , some things just didn't bear thinking about.

So despite detesting that big gaudy teapot, with her simpering and smirking, even Hestia Seraphina Black wasn't too proud to admit that she'd become a little burnt out when it came to certain things. That perhaps she'd lost sight of the overarching objective of domestic appliances: to assist and facilitate household harmony.

She had come to that realisation all by herself, of course. And it had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the teapot in question reappearing in her kitchen later that same day with a wizened old house-elf in tow. A wizened old _Black_ house-elf if she wasn't mistaken. And one that appeared to be fiercely loyal to a certain _Master Potter_.

She'd attempted to scream for help as she was grasped firmly by the handle, but the air had barely left her spout when she was pulled into the unmistakable twist of Apparition.

Of course, she recognised Grimmauld Place straight away. It had been the primary Black family residence for generations before all that ‘war' unpleasantness had torn the family apart.

But she was given barely ten seconds to reminisce before being subjected to a wholly unnecessary dressing down from the old elf. _Kreacher_ , and what an apt name that was, she recalled with amusement, looking down her spout at his grotesque features. Really, he needn't have reminded her of her duties and obligations, explaining at length _just_ how guests and suitors of the head of house should be treated, as if she was some un-seasoned young kettle straight off the coppersmith's workbench who had seen neither scratch nor tarnish.

In any case, she now found that she was in the mortifying position of having to ingratiate herself with one Mrs Potts. And if that wasn't the most ridiculous name too! Why did she deserve an honorific in place of a first name? Did she even _have_ a first name?

"I suppose I may have been a little more uppity than strictly necessary," Hestia ventured.

Mrs Potts emitted a surprised plume of steam. "I must say I _was_ rather taken aback at our hostile reception."

"I'm just so very protective of Master Draco. He's had a difficult time since the war ended and..." Hestia trailed off. There was no need to dredge all that up. Discretion concerning the personal life of one's master or mistress was another element of a loyal kettle's ambit.

"Well, that may be," Mrs Potts countered, "though I don't see how getting his boyfriend in hot water is going to make life any easier for him."

"Now hang on," Hestia protested, feeling her temper boil up, "it's not as if you were innocent in all this. I seem to remember you taking great issue with Master Draco's tea-bags!"

Mrs Potts huffed. "And I'd do it again! If he wants to drink stale dust wrapped in paper, throw it in a mug and leave me out of it."

" _Stale dust?!_ Of all the insolent—" Hestia spluttered, steam shooting from her spout.

"Both of you!" Kreacher cried, attempting to pour cold water on the argument that was beginning to flare up. "Pipe down! We is needing to fix this shame you is bringing upon your noble households; else-wise they is in danger of being ripped asunder by your foolishness."

That shut the lids on both appliances quick-smart. "But how can we?" Mrs Potts wailed. "They've been bickering and sniping at each other for days." And she proceeded to sob loudly, rivulets of water running out of her gilded spout.

"Trust in Kreacher," he grinned—a truly unnerving sight to behold—and he began to outline a plan.

—

On the whole, Draco felt the search of the cellar had been worth doing, if only to eliminate it as a possible hiding place for their lost possessions. However, the fact that he'd not been down there for a good four years had bitten him in the arse, rather badly, and he berated himself for forgetting that damn Claustrus enchantment. He really should have remembered. The cottage had previously belonged to his first cousin twice removed, Lucretia Black, who he'd met only the once, and rumour had it she'd been quite the sadistic battleaxe; locking poor uncle Regulus in the attic of Grimmauld and subjecting him to this very curse. The poor bugger hadn't stopped shaking for days after his discovery.

Add to that the fact that it had somehow slipped Draco's mind that Harry had himself been locked in a cramped cupboard half his life, and it had him feeling like a right heel. The man had looked utterly traumatised.

After they'd beat hasty retreat from the cellar, flinging up a couple of cursory protective enchantments in their wake, Draco had led Harry to the bedroom for a lie down. Only for Harry to guiltily murmur that he wasn't _really_ in the mood for a shag, if that was all the same to Draco. Draco had spluttered with momentary indignation which quickly changed to mortified and hasty reassurances, and thankfully Harry had agreed with him that a lie down was probably the next best thing to a cup of tea for calming his frayed nerves. Though it hadn't stopped him lamenting the lack of a decent cuppa for a good minute or two. And then that led on to a mournful elegy to his lost teapot.

It seemed that Mrs Potts had become a confidante of sorts to Harry while he'd lived alone at Grimmauld Place and had even taken to doling out relationship advice. Why, it even appeared she was the one who'd encouraged Harry to approach him that day in the Ministry archive room to ask him if he'd 'fancy grabbing a bite together some evening'. Draco had been so taken by surprise he'd banged his knee on the open filing cabinet and been unable to think of anything witty or clever to reply except a curt ‘yes'. He could still picture Harry's blinding smile and breathless recitation of his Floo address. Draco's insides fluttered at the memory, and a smile tugged at his lips. The smile faltered though, when he thought about how derogatory he'd been about Potter's prissy piece of porcelain. Sorry, his terribly _terrific_ teapot.

He realised then that Harry had stopped talking mid-monologue and was instead snoring softly, glasses askew and all signs of worry absent from his face. The steady rise and fall of Harry's chest was soothing and relaxing, and just as Draco was wondering whether he too ought to clamber in next to his boyfriend and have forty winks himself, an abominable racket arose from outside.

"Bloody hell," Harry grizzled, eyes still closed but frowning deeply. "I'd only just nodded off!"

Draco leapt up and lifted the sash on the window and poked his head out to look down on the garden. Unfortunately the blasted horse chestnut tree was blocking his view. He could just about make out the edge of a table with a cheerful floral runner. "What in Salazar's scrawny—"

There came, as if carried on the afternoon breeze, a bizarre whistling noise and the chime of a bell and then a haughty voice, "Masters Draco and Harry! Masters Draco and Harry!"

Well, what in the name of Merlin's marvellous—?

"You are cordially summoned to a _Domus Testimonii._ And in accordance with the time-honoured traditions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, are bound by the stone and spellwork of the magical dwelling in which you reside... to attend... or suffer the consequences."

Well.

Draco knew what _that_ meant.

He roused Harry as gently as he could.

"Oi, what the fuck, stop shaking me!" the ungrateful, if rather sexily-rumpled oaf groused.

"Something's going on outside," Draco said. "There's a table in the garden. I really think we ought to go take a look."

Harry groaned, fixing his glasses.

"I remember Father telling me about something like this happening to my great-grandfather," Draco urged, tugging at the blankets. "After he ignored one of these _Domus_ summons things, the Manor began behaving very strangely; it was as though its magic was refusing to cooperate."

Harry pulled the blankets back toward him and mumbled.

"Do come on," Draco urged, "or the house's magic might rebel, just as the Manor's did. It was a ghastly time by all accounts, and it was all my great-grandmother could do to make him see sense before utter bedlam prevailed. You think that curse in the cellar was bad? That was a drop in the cauldron compared to what craziness we might have to endure. So, you _see_. We're _obliged_."

"Are we?" Harry said sleepily, laying his head back on the pillow. "We're not at the Manor though. Can't I just have five more minutes? M'cosy."

"No!" Draco snapped. The git clearly hadn't been listening to a word.

—

Harry was really beginning to wonder whether moving in with Draco hadn't been the worst idea he'd ever had. So far, there had been nothing but aggravation, arguments, ill-feeling, painful scalding, frankly terrifying panic attacks in cellars, and to top it all off, his beloved teapot was still missing, and he hadn't had a good cup of tea all day.

He followed Draco down the narrow staircase, through the hallway and out to the back door, feeling more and more miserable with each step. The cacophony of clattering, rattling and whistling hadn't let up, and it was doing nothing to reduce the gloomy weight that had begun to settle in his gut.

Emerging from the house into the walled garden of the cottage, Harry blinked in the cold-bright of the afternoon sun, dazzled for a moment. But as his vision became clear, so did the source of the din.

Before him on the lawn, wedged between the banks of wildflowers that lined the sides of the garden, was an enormous table, piled high with what looked to be a pretty extravagant spread. One that could rival a Hogwarts weekend luncheon, he suspected. If he could only see it clearly.

Because he couldn't.

It was as if there was some filmy barrier obscuring the scene before him. Like peering through a frosted window. Or, like he'd not got his glasses on. No. A quick prod to his face told him it wasn't that.

There was a blurry hunched figure moving about near the table in quite a familiar manner.

"Draco," he said. "Who's that? What _is_ this?"

"It appears to be— Well, clearly it's some sort of— The thing is—"

"You've no idea, do you?"

"I do!" he blurted. He paused and looked around, eyes wild. Then back at Harry, pursing his lips before admitting, "No. Not a clue."

"Come along then, sirs!" a voice called. It was the small blurry person, and Harry definitely recognised that voice.

"Kreacher!" Harry took a step towards the indistinct blob that was his old house-elf. There was a time when he'd have recoiled from the shrivelled, wrinkly and frankly cantankerous old elf, but right now he couldn't be more relieved to see him. Harry had actually grown rather fond of Kreacher. The old house hadn't been the cheeriest of places, but at least once he and the elf began to sort out their differences and agreed a division of labour in the house—working hours were agreed for Kreacher, and Harry was strictly forbidden to cook or clean during those hours—it had sort of felt like home, or rather like he was actually welcome in his own home. Finally tearing down Walburga's shouty portrait had helped in that respect, and after all the spells Hermione had tried—even the _Bombarda_ hadn't made a scratch—who'd have thought all he needed to do in the end was politely ask his house-elf to do it?

How different it felt _here_ , he thought. He loved Draco, he really did. But it honestly felt as though he couldn't put a foot right since the moment he'd arrived. And Draco hadn't helped things, siding with that uppity kettle and sneering at poor Mrs Potts.

"There's some sort of magical barrier, Harry," Draco said.

They walked carefully towards the quivering layer of air obstructing their vision, and Harry prodded it with his wand. It wobbled and shimmered but his wand went straight through without any fizzing or sparks.

"Seems safe," he shrugged.

"Thank you for that persuasive assessment, Auror Potter," said Draco, raising an eyebrow. "Right then, I suppose we ought to see what all this hoopla is about."

They stepped through the barrier, which felt a little like a thin film of oil, and Harry shuddered at the slimy feeling, but then... then he was through, and the unpleasantness evaporated and not only that, he felt lighter and warmer and somehow more... comfortable? It was a familiar feeling that he tried to place but it seemed just beyond the reach of his memory.

"Master Draco," a voice called out, and there she was, Draco's copper kettle, proudly sitting atop a raised silver tray on the table, alongside none other than a smiling Mrs Potts. Relief washed over Harry like a balm.

"Hestia!" Draco cried, at the same time as Harry laughed, "Mrs Potts!"

"Where the devil have you been?" asked Draco. "We've been frantic!"

Harry smiled to himself. He knew Draco had been worried, despite his cool exterior. And looking at him now, he wondered how he'd ever been cross with him, or Hestia for that matter. Her copper was just so shiny and smooth and pretty. Not at all dissimilar to Draco in many ways, he mused.

He shook his head. "Yeah," Harry added, "and what's with all this?" He gestured at the beautifully laid out table with plates and cake stands piled high with the most tempting-looking (and smelling) food. Tiered trays of dainty finger sandwiches, savoury tartlets and scotch eggs beckoned him. A plate piled high with plump scones sat beside pots of jam, lemon curd and clotted cream. Stacks of toasted crumpets shining with melted butter accompanied a collection of light golden madeleines shimmering with icing sugar, miniature, fluffy Victoria sponges and fruit-filled pavlovas. To Harry's amazement, there was even a plate of Cocoa Glaciers—Draco's very favourite. Harry's mouth watered; he knew that if Kreacher had a hand in this, everything would taste just as delicious as it looked.

"Never fret, gentlemen," trilled Hestia. "We have called you here for an important household meeting. Isn't that right, Mrs Potts, _my dear? "_ She turned to look at the teapot, just as Harry and Draco turned to look at each other, mouths agape.

"It most certainly is, Hestia," said Mrs Potts, her spout bobbing up and down in agreement. "Now, it won't have escaped your notice that _Madame_ Hestia and I didn't get off to the most auspicious start."

At the addition of her own honorific title, the kettle emitted a pleased puff of steam. "The unfortunate thing is, as Kreacher so... um, _kindly_ pointed out,"—Hestia looked nervously at the old elf—"us getting so, uh, hot under our lids with each other has not been _exactly_ conducive to the establishment of a happy household."

Kreacher nodded as if encouraging them both.

"And," Mrs Potts continued, "if I learnt anything from Mistress Molly during my time at the Burrow, it's that one cannot maintain a peaceful and flourishing home and family without help from one's attendant familiars."

And that was _it_ , Harry thought, that familiar welcoming feeling. It was how he felt whenever he went to the Burrow. He always felt happy, and loved, and like he _belonged_. That had certainly been missing the last few days.

"And by help," Hestia interjected, "Mrs Potts does of course mean the three tenets of a harmonious household and a happy home; namely perfectly brewed tea, home-baked treats, and a considerate and genial atmosphere borne of kind words and actions."

Mrs Potts was nodding along with watery eyes. " _Never_ are these more important than when two households merge, and the lack of _any one of these_ can spell disaster for the success of the union."

Harry chanced a look at Draco, who was staring on in disbelief.

"So, Master Draco, Master Harry, we're quite sorry." Hestia sniffed, her voice wavering slightly. "We have let you down immensely. And we have Kreacher to thank for, well, knocking our silly lids together and making us realise that what we thought to be irreconcilable outrage with one another was no more than a storm in a teacup."

"Yes," agreed Mrs Potts, "and henceforth, we vow to treat each other and our owners with kindness and caring, and though we may not see spout to spout on everything, we promise to maintain a level of respect, courteousness and tolerance... well, as much as we can _handle_." She grinned and wiggled her handle at Hestia, who snorted a jet of steam quite inelegantly.

"Well," Draco declared, "This is quite the surprise. I must say I _was_ rather disappointed that you two didn't seem to, ah, warm to each other. Things had gotten so strained, so it's marvellous news to hear you've decided to turn over a new leaf."

Harry placed his hand on Draco's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You're sort of hot when you're being all ‘fatherly'." Draco quirked a surprised eyebrow at him and Harry grinned back.

"And with that, sirs," said Kreacher, motioning them toward the table, "it is most important that you are sitting, eating and enjoying a delightful cup of tea."

"Thank you, Kreacher, you've really outdone yourself here." Harry smiled as the elf bowed low in reply. As he took a chair at the table, a plate, teacup and saucer levitated their way toward him. "But, how did you know we needed your help?"

As Mrs Potts and Hestia served their tea—a perfectly hot, fragrant Assam that had Harry closing his eyes and sighing—Kreacher began explaining how he had found Mrs Potts in distress, and how he had remembered Hestia from many years prior. It turned out she had served the Black family at Grimmauld Place long ago, before being gifted to Mistress 'Cissa on her wedding day by the noble Black matriarch, Walburga. As Kreacher was labouring the countless and varied virtues of Mistress Walburga—the portrait of whom Harry strongly suspected had been surreptitiously secreted in Kreacher's own quarters—Harry's eyes roved over the positively lavish spread before him, searching. There had to be _some_ around, he thought. It wasn't with the sponge and pavlova. He craned his neck. Or near the savoury dishes. Hestia and Mrs Potts were whispering to each other beside the scones, casting occasional furtive glances his way.

"What are you looking for, Harry?" Draco had paused mid-way through spreading jam on a scone. "You can't honestly tell me you can't find something to eat. There's enough food here to feed a Quidditch team. We'll be eating it for weeks, unless you take it to work, or—"

"There's no treacle tart," Harry said dolefully.

Hestia emitted a sharp blast of steam that sent a scone tumbling from the pile right into the pot of lemon curd. "Dull my copper and call me a rusty bucket," she muttered.

Mrs Potts laughed excitedly. "I told you so, I told you so," she chanted, puffing steam from her spout. "Now you _have_ to do it, you promised!"

"Trickery! Trickery and subterfuge!" Hestia shrieked, before quickly regaining some composure. She fixed Mrs Potts with a stern glare. "You _knew_ it'd be the first thing he'd look for. Eight decades of serving Blacks and I'm finally duped by a teapot... Oh, very well, I'll do it."

"Do what?" Draco enquired, his eyes fixed on Hestia and Mrs Potts.

"Relax my noble and most ancient rules," she replied, before slowly adding, "and furnish Master Harry with water at a temperature of his prescription as if he was a member of the House of Black,"—her voice took on a low timbre and she looked toward Harry—"or married to one."

Harry spluttered incoherently, getting tea down his shirt, and Draco's knife clattered noisily to the table. Mrs Potts let a whistle of glee out of her airhole, and her lid rattled merrily. A croaky laugh from the other side of the table told him Kreacher was rather enjoying Hestia's suggestion too.

"You may be made of copper," said Draco waspishly to his kettle, sipping his tea, "but you've got quite the brass neck."

Despite his sharp words, Harry didn't miss Draco's shy sidewards glance, and the flush high on his cheeks, just as he felt an answering blush bloom on his own face.

And—if you asked him—Harry would have told you that he finally felt he belonged. Here, in this cottage, with cheeky kettles and teasing teapots and a mouthy Malfoy. And that he wouldn't have traded it. Not for all the tea in China.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco’s favourite treats in this fic are a celebratory and reverent nod to the incredibly good [What We Pretend We Can’t See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794657/chapters/21995357) by gyzym, and the immortal line “I will have Cocoa Glaciers or I will have NOTHING”.  
> If you haven’t read the fic then you are in for the best treat ever (not counting Kreacher’s homemade scones, of course).


End file.
